Tuesday, April 29, 2014

TINY DUST



Purge me
To an end, of
Silent pick
Where no thread
Do knot, to
Any words
Where the parched leaves
Drop down
The green trees
And many tears
Streak the face
The pain of life

To that root, uproot
This form of mine
Where no evil eye
Stand a hiding
To do terms, with
My afflictions

Do me good
To plinth
Thy model of clay
So much harsh, the
Weather is here
Any time, storm
Will crumble me
To dust, tiny !
Purge me
To my silent end!

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